"He says that he cannot be seen to-night; that he has retired," spoke the hall man, turning once more. "Can you not call at his office in the morning?"
Ashton-Kirk stepped inside the brass rail.
"If you please," said he to the man as he took possession of the instrument. Then in a sharp, decisive tone he spoke into the transmitter. "Mr. Quigley, I am very sorry to inconvenience you to-night. To put off the matter of which I have to speak until morning would perhaps place you in a rather hard light. The police always make such a muddle of these things."
There was a pause, then came a shrill piping over the wire, startled and inquiring. Scanlon saw the investigator smile.
"Very well," said Ashton-Kirk. "We will come up immediately." Turning to the hall man, he asked: "Where is Mr. Quigley's apartment?"
"Twelfth floor, sir. Take the elevator. Number 1203."
The glittering cage swept smoothly up through the shaft, and at the twelfth floor stopped.
"Third door to your right, suh," said the black man in charge.
Ashton-Kirk was about to knock at the door indicated when it opened, and they saw a man in a dressing gown, a long side growth of hair brushed over a bald head and a white, puffy face.
"Sir," said he, agitatedly, "I really must protest against this sort of thing; it is very late. And I have had a trying day."